Aftermath
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Sherlock is dead. Everybody knows that - except the one person he trusted to help him pull off the elaborate hoax. But now she has to live with this secret and the aftermath of The Reichenbach Fall. This is Part 1 of a post-Reichenbach trilogy. Cover art by flavialikestodrawer, with my gratitude and deep appreciation. See her work at flavialikestodraw DOT tumblr DOT com.


**Aftermath**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

Molly climbed the flight of stairs up to the second floor landing, turned left at the top and stopped outside the door to her flat. She fished around in the bottom of her copious work bag and eventually retrieved her set of keys, then sighing wearily, she selected the correct key, jammed it into the key hole and turned it, pushing open the door and reaching, instinctively, for the light switch on the wall to her right. Letting the door swing closed behind her, she walked the few steps along the hallway and opened the door into her sitting room. It was only then that she realised her flat was empty.

It wasn't just that there were no lights on in any of the rooms, despite the fact that it had been dark outside now for at least two hours. The flat felt cold and lifeless – strangely similar to her latest client, the body she had PM'd that afternoon and, incidentally, the cause of her unusual degree of weariness. The body had been that of a child.

She crossed the sitting room in rapid strides, depositing her bag on the small sofa, switching on the table lamp and the floor lamp as she passed them, and pushed open the door to the guest bedroom. There was no one there, though there were visible signs of its earlier occupation – the unmade bed, for one, and a few items of clothing, thrown casually on the chair by the wall. Pulling the door to, she moved on to the next door – the one to her room. This room, too, was empty. She crossed to the bed, turned on the bedside lamp and removed her jacket, dropping it on the bed. Retracing her steps into the sitting room, she passed through the last door, into the short corridor that led past the kitchen to the bathroom. Both rooms were unoccupied. The growing feeling of unease now developed into full-blown anxiety. Where was he? And what on earth had possessed him to go out?

Her mind began to race so she leaned against the wall next to the kitchen door, closed her eyes and took three deep, slow breaths, to calm herself. She was running through the options in her head. She could ring his mobile – no, he did not currently have a mobile. He had left that on the roof, as further proof of the finality of his actions. She could go out and look for him – no, because she had absolutely no idea where he could be. She could call his brother – NO. That would have to be the absolute last resort. If his brother knew he had gone out, he would be furious and it would only lead to further ill-feeling between the two siblings, whose relationship was strained to breaking point already. Trying to push down the rising feeling of panic and despair, she rolled off the wall and went into the kitchen. He had clearly been gone for some time because the flat felt cold. It was well insulated and retained residual heat efficiently, so the heating had not been on for several of hours. A cup of tea may not solve the problem but it would certainly help. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she walked to the kitchen window which looked down onto the street, hoping to see him walking along the pavement but the street light opposite illuminated nothing but a passing cyclist – who was definitely not him. She could not imagine anything more anathema to her erstwhile house guest than pushing pedals on a bicycle. She almost smiled at the thought, despite her desperation. Just as the bubbling sound of the kettle rose to a crescendo, the doorbell rang.

She raced back through the flat, grabbed the door handle and wrenched the door open. He stood on the threshold, his coat collar up, shoulders hunched, hands pushed deep into his pockets, almost hugging himself. She was about to cry out, 'Where have you been?', more with relief than anything, but the grim expression on his face pulled her up short and she just stepped back and opened the door wide to admit him. He strode passed her and walked into the sitting room, almost throwing himself onto the sofa, and sitting, huddled, in his coat.

'The kettle's just boiled', she said, instead of all the things she really wanted to say, such as 'What if you'd been seen?' She walked back to the kitchen and took out a second mug, to make the tea. She came out, carrying both mugs, placed one on the coffee table, in front of him and sat in the single armchair herself, cradling her hot beverage in her hands. Her relief at seeing him safely back in the flat had reduced her anxiety only marginally. During the month he had been staying with her, his demeanour had become increasingly morose, as the dire nature of his situation had grown more and more obvious. He was, after all, officially dead. He was also completely disgraced, his reputation shattered; branded a criminal and a fraud, even suspected of the serious crimes of kidnap and possibly even murder. All his friends – bar one – believed he had killed himself by jumping off the roof of St. Bart's hospital. He had even arranged for his closest friend to be the star witness to his suicide and this was the most painful aspect of the whole sorry situation. He had used John's friendship to put the final stamp of authenticity on his carefully crafted deception. John believed he was dead, so he must be.

'Mycroft called'.

The sound of his voice was so sudden and unexpected that Molly jumped, almost spilling her tea.

'Did he? He came here?' she asked.

'No, I mean he phoned, on the landline.'

'What did he want?'

'To tell me everything is arranged – diplomatic passport, visas, plane tickets - everything. He's sending a car to pick me up tomorrow morning, 7 o'clock.'

'Oh', she replied and then sat motionless, as a thousand different emotions poured through her. There was no denying that it had been difficult having him living here for the last month, not least because, to the outside world, she was mourning his sudden and dramatic death. But also because he was clearly emotionally tormented but had erected this stone wall barrier which made it impossible for her to feel that she could comfort him in any way. In addition, she knew that being confined in this small flat, with nothing but brooding guilt and despair to occupy his mind, was a torture for him. And he didn't even have access to his violin, which could at least have offered some solace. But the thought that he was, in just a few hours, to disappear from her life – possibly for ever – was dreadful to contemplate. She felt her heart rate rising and a tight band begin to squeeze her chest and she knew she was about to burst into tears, so she got up quickly, and scurried into the kitchen, closing both intervening doors behind her.

She hung onto the ceramic rim of her Belfast sink and fought hard with her emotions, taking deep, shuddering breaths and fighting hard to regain control. After several minutes – which seemed like an eternity - she eventually felt calm enough to brazen it out. She scooped some cold water from the tap onto her face, dried it on a tea towel, and then went back into the sitting room. He was still sitting on the sofa, still wrapped in his coat, the tea untouched on the table.

'I thought I would do spag bol for supper. What do you think?' she asked, as normally as she could muster.

He stood up and turned toward her, fixing her with the most forlorn stare.

'Nothing for me, thanks, Molly. I'm really not hungry. I'm going to go and pack and then have an early night.' He even tried to smile, then, which was, if anything, more heart rending than his stricken expression. 'Good night.' He turned and walked into the guest bedroom, closing the door.

Molly occupied herself for the next couple of hours preparing and cooking enough spaghetti bolognaise for both of them, in the vain hope that he might be tempted by the rich aromas of garlic and frying onions and change his mind, but the door to his bedroom remained closed and she ate alone at the small, round table in the kitchen. She then washed up the dishes, put the leftovers into Tupperware containers and then into the fridge, and quickly cleaned down the kitchen surfaces. She was bone weary from her tough day at work and the emotional rollercoaster she had been riding for the past month, so she decided to have an early night too and, having changed into her cotton pyjamas and carried out her bedtime beauty regime, in the bathroom, she walked through the flat, turning off lights, checking that the front door was locked and bolted, then went to bed.

ooOoo

She did not know how long she had been asleep, only that something had dragged her back, so sharply, to full consciousness that she was completely disorientated. She sat up in bed, eyes wide, and then saw the dark shape standing right by her bed. He had touched her shoulder. Then her brain registered and she recognised him.

'Sherlock! What is it? What's the matter?' she gasped, still disconcerted by the sudden awakening.

'Molly, I'm afraid,' he said, in a voice so wracked with pain and desperation that her blood almost froze in her veins and her whole body felt icy cold. He sat down in the chair across from her bed and put his head into his hands. She reached over and turned on the small bedside lamp, which cast a dim illumination over the room. She could not speak, could not form a single coherent thought, but just gaped, open mouthed, at the man in the chair. He seemed to gain some measure of composure and sat upright, dragged his hands down his cheeks and let them rest on the arms of the chair. He exhaled a long, slow breath, then said,

'I went to the cemetery today – after Mycroft phoned.' He paused for a long time but she knew he had more to say, so she sat very still, so as not to disrupt his chain of thought. 'I just wanted to see my head stone. I don't even know why. But, when I got there, John was there, and Mrs Hudson.' He exhaled sharply, through his nose. 'God, Mrs H. was a bit unsteady on her feet. I think she'd had her evening soother a bit early.' Another pause. 'John was talking - to me. I couldn't hear what he said, I was too far away and, obviously, hiding in the bushes, but he touched my head stone and I could see he was crying. Then he sort of stood to attention – like a kind of salute – and then he marched away.' He paused yet again, as though watching the scene inside his head.

'I felt so bad! I really wanted to run over there and say, John, it's OK! I'm alive!'

He leaned his head back, against the bedroom wall, and closed his eyes, then dropped his head forward again, into his hands. 'But I knew I couldn't because – if I had – it would all have been for nothing and –'

He stopped there because they both knew what would come next. After a few moments, he sat up again. 'So I am really dead, my old life is over. Moriarty's won, he really has won. He's burned the heart out of me. Tomorrow I will start my new life – my non-life. I'll be cast out, into the wilderness and no one will wonder or care where I am or what I'm doing because all my friends think I'm dead…'

'I'll care!' She spoke with such force and vehemence that he was startled - she even surprised herself. Sitting up in bed, her back against the headboard, the duvet laid across her lap, she blurted out, in a rush of pent up emotion,

'There won't be a single moment of one single day that I won't wonder where you are or what you are doing, that I won't hope and pray that you are safe and maybe even happy. And I will miss you so much, SO much…'

The blast of her outburst hit him like a shockwave. Then, it was as if his mind, after all the years of maintaining a strict dominance over his physical being, suddenly shut down. He stopped thinking. His body, having been held in submission for so long, burst free and he was almost overwhelmed by the rush of sensory overload. He stood and, in one fluid motion, climbed onto the bed and, taking her in his arms, pulled her to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his hair. For her, the world contracted to a small bubble of space and time, which contained just him and herself. Beyond that, there was nothing.

Breathing in the scent – of her hair, her soap, her body - he felt an urgent need to touch her bare skin and his hands reached under her tee-shirt top and slid up her rib cage to her shoulder blades. He turned his head and, finding her mouth with his, almost devoured her. She ran her fingers through his hair and caught his bottom lip between her teeth. His face was smooth and soft, with the slightest hint of 5 o'clock shadow on his top lip, and he smelt of aftershave and wood smoke.

Kneeling on the bed, he rocked backed on his heels as she curled her legs underneath her, so that she was kneeling too. He pulled his face away from hers and looked into her eyes. Her pupils had exploded, so that there was barely any iris visible around them. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips, which he had so cruelly described in the past as being too small, were plump and voluptuous, engorged with blood. Her chestnut hair, usually restrained in a plait or a pony tail, was loose and fanned out around her shoulders and down her back, providing a dark, lustrous frame for the porcelain perfection of her face and neck. She met his gaze with a fiercely passionate glare and then, leaning forward, she pushed him back on the bed and threw herself on top of him. Now she was kissing him, sliding her mouth along his jaw line and down the side of his neck, to the hollow alongside his left clavicle. Then she pushed herself upright and straddled his hips. Crossing her arms, she grasped the hem of her tee shirt, pulled it off over her head and flung it away. He watched this manoeuvre, almost in a trance. She grasped both his wrists and placed his hands on her breasts, meeting his gaze, as though challenging him to respond. Her nipples were hard and erect and, as he brushed them with his thumbs, she moaned and arched her back, pressing her pelvis into his. She slid her hands down his arms and peeled his dressing gown off his shoulders. Without any conscious thought, he rolled his shoulders to the right and then the left, shrugging his arms out of the sleeves. He then peeled off his tee shirt and dropped it on the floor, beside the bed. In the same movement, he reached up with both hands and pulled her down on top of him, pressing their bare flesh together. With one hand splayed out on her back, he twisted the fingers of his other hand into her hair, pressing his lips to hers. She had both her hands buried in his hair and was returning the pressure of his lips, pressing her tongue against his.

Acting purely on impulse, he rolled them both over so that now he was on top of her. He braced his left elbow on the bed and reached down, looping the thumb of his free hand in the waist band of her pyjama bottoms, and pulling them down to her knees. She kicked her legs to finish the job of removing them and, at the same time, she caught the waist band of his pyjama bottoms and rolled them down over his buttocks. He pushed them past his knees, kicking them free.

They were both lost in the rapture of their sensuality, living only in the moment, exploring each other's bodies with fingers, lips and tongues. Though time passed, they were oblivious to it. He felt as though his whole body were pulsating. He became increasingly aware that the heat emanating from his groin was spreading outwards, engulfing his whole being. It was as though he were on fire. He pushed up on his elbow and ran his hand up the side of her left leg, slipped it under her thigh and hitched her leg up, over his hips. He was fully erect now and the pressure of her hips, pushing into his, threatened to over-whelm him. She hooked her other leg over the back of his thigh, opening herself up to him, urging him to enter her, so he reached round between her legs and guided himself into her.

As he entered her, she uttered a low moan followed by a sharp intake of breath. She crossed her ankles over his buttocks, locking the two of them together. He braced his weight on his elbows, grasping her wrists with his hands and pinning her arms above her head. They were both moving rhythmically, in unison. He dropped his head onto the bed, alongside hers and she turned and bit his neck. Her internal muscles were holding him in a vicelike grip as the pace of their mutual thrusting increased. They were both breathless now and, with every thrust, she released a gruff, feral groan which he found unimaginably stimulating. As they both approached the climax of their passion, he focused all his awareness on the point at which their bodies conjoined. As his world exploded in a burst of pure, visceral ecstasy, he felt her internal muscles ripple and contract in waves, as she arched her spine and screamed his name.

His passion spent, he almost collapsed on top of her but kept most of his weight on his elbows as they both lay breathless, their hearts racing. But, gradually, their breathing and heart rates eased and the heat began to dissipate from their bodies. At last, he felt her grip on him relax and he gently eased out of her and rolled over to one side. With his upper hand, he pulled her towards him, not wanting to lose the closeness of their bodies. She turned towards him and draped her upper leg over his hips, reached up with her free hand and smoothed the hair back off his forehead. Their faces just inches apart, they gazed into each other's eyes and he kissed her gently. He felt a huge and almost overwhelming rush of tenderness towards this woman whom he had been deliberately holding at arm's length for the last 5 years. He had recognised, from the very beginning of their acquaintance, that she had strong feelings for him but since, long ago, he had decided never to entertain such feelings himself, he saw her attraction as a threat to the integrity of his very sense of self, so he had rebuffed her and wilfully misinterpreted her vain attempts to flirt with him, whilst taking full advantage of her emotional attachment in order to manipulate her, when it suited him to do so.

Yet, who had he turned to, in his darkest hour? Who had given him unconditional support, had facilitated the elaborate hoax that had saved the lives of his three closest friends, had risked her own professional reputation and future by forging his death certificate, had sheltered him in her home, whilst he wallowed in self-pity and despair? He looked into those eyes now and, perhaps for the first time in his life, understood the concept of love. Tomorrow, he would have to leave behind everything he held dear, everything that represented security and certainty but, for this one night, she had given him respite from all his demons and she had done it in the full knowledge that, after this night, she might never see him again. He hugged her to him, breathed in her musky, post-coital scent, felt the contours of her body mould to him and, for this brief moment, he felt at peace.

ooOoo

Molly's internal clock registered that it was morning and time to wake up. She opened her eyes and blinked at the light from the bedside lamp. She was puzzled, for a moment, as to why she had fallen asleep with the light on, but then she registered the body that draped its limbs across her and breathed gently on the back of her neck. Her memories of the night before flooded back.

She reached up with her right hand and plaited her fingers into the fingers of his right hand, then drew both hands to her chest and pressed her back into his chest, closing her eyes to savour the warmth and comfort of his embrace. The change in his breathing rate and the increase in the muscle tone in his limbs told her that he had awoken, too, but he did not pull away from her. Instead, he squeezed her to him and seemed to be savouring the closeness too. She squirmed round towards him, releasing his hand, and smoothing his hair out of his eyes, placed a tender kiss on the corner of his mouth. She knew the moment could not last.

'It's 20 past 6, Sherlock. The car will be here in 40 minutes', she whispered. He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to hers, in acknowledgement of the veracity of her statement. 'I'll put the kettle on,' she said, then rolled away from him, slid out of bed and, pulling on her dressing gown, left the room.

She stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, hugging her dressing gown round her and feeling desolate. She saw him flit past the kitchen door, dressed in his now familiar blue dressing gown, on his way to the bathroom. Now, as she listened to the muffled sounds of his morning ablutions, the silent tears slid down her face and dripped onto her sleeves. The tight knot in her chest was making it difficult to breathe. She heard the shower switch off and, moments later, he came out of the bathroom and passed the door again, wrapped in a big white towel. She made two mugs of tea and carried them into the sitting room, taking one with her to the window to look down on the street below, which was still illuminated only by the street lamp, opposite. As she stood there, warming her hands on the hot mug, she saw a sleek, black car slide to a halt, outside her building. She looked at her watch. It was only 10 to 7. Too early, she thought. A few moments passed and her doorbell rang.

She opened her front door to reveal two men, one tall and slim, carrying an umbrella, the other broad and muscular – who might as well have had the words 'body guard' stamped on his forehead.

'Good morning, Miss Hooper. I hope I'm not too early.'

She stepped aside and invited them in. Mycroft strode into the middle of her small sitting room and gave it a quick, critical scan. The 'heavy' stood just inside the door, with his hands clasped behind his back.

'Please sit down, Mycroft. Sherlock won't be long, I'm sure,' said Molly, glad that her weeping fit had died down at the sight of the black car.

'Thank you, but I won't, actually. I will not be staying long,' Mycroft smiled, deprecatingly, inclining his head to Molly.

The guest bedroom door opened and Sherlock emerged, dressed in his dark suit, blue scarf and black coat, carrying the small valise which held the few possessions which Mycroft had retrieved for him, from 221b Baker Street without arousing John Watson's suspicions. At a nod from Mycroft, the heavy stepped forward and held out his hand for the bag. Sherlock handed it over then looked, pointedly, at his wrist watch, which said 5 to 7, and sat down on the sofa, picking up the mug of tea that Molly had made for him. Sitting back, he began to sip it, without a word or a glance at his brother.

'Well,' said Mycroft, 'I will leave you to say your goodbyes, Sherlock,' and, turning to Molly, he made a slight bow and said, 'Thank you, Miss Hooper, for all the assistance you have given my brother and for your hospitality. He could have stayed with me but I can see why he would prefer the delights of your company. Goodbye, dear lady.' And he walked out of the flat, leaving Molly in no doubt that he somehow knew that she and Sherlock had spent the night together.

No sooner had Mycroft and his lackey left the little flat than Sherlock stood up, put down his mug and came over to Molly, taking her into his arms. They hugged each other tightly but neither of them spoke. After a long moment, which was still not long enough, he eased his grip on her, kissed her fiercely on the top of her head, turned and was gone. Molly stood in the middle of the room, hugging herself, as the sobs bubbled up from that big knot in her chest, then she collapsed into the armchair and let the grief overwhelm her.

ooOoo

8


End file.
